


The Dundas Separation Case (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [98]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angry Sherlock Holmes, Bigamy, Destiel - Freeform, Divorce, F/M, Feels, Financial Issues, First Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Lies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 22:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11022924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: John feels that Sherlock needs a nice, quiet and simple case after their depressing trip to Robin Hood's county. But it all goes horribly wrong when his friend gets a dreadful shock, as a face from the past needs his help. And for someone, past deeds have present consequences.





	The Dundas Separation Case (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



The long hot summer of that year passed with no let-up in Sherlock's workload, and increasingly I would look up from my paper to find that he had fallen asleep in his chair again. I considered trying to persuade him to take another holiday, even if it meant my taking time off from an increasingly busy surgery. A generous bequest had enabled us to expand into the adjoining house in Bloomsbury and take on two more full-time doctors, but the surge in demand for our services had more than matched our growth, and I myself was often left tired and exhausted by the day's end. That and my literary efforts meant that I was in little better shape than my friend, if truth be told. 

It was at this relatively low point in both our lives that Sherlock received a terrible blow, courtesy of his next case. Indeed, the deeply personal nature of what transpired was the primary reason as to why this was not included amongst my original stories. 

It was the end of August, and a whole week had gone by with no major new cases. I had been getting hopeful that things might be turning the corner, so when his irritating brother Bacchus turned up again at 221B, I groaned inwardly (and not just because, for some reason, one could not order man-traps through the general post, which was most unfair!). The lounge-lizard had called two days prior and I had feared the worst, but nothing had seemingly come of that visit and I had, in retrospect unwisely, begun to relax. I was also on edge as our visitor seemed unusually ruffled, and anything which would cause a man as powerful as him to look out of sorts could not be good.

“It is this damn Children’s Charter”, he grumbled, pulling himself closer to the fire. It had been a damp year thus far, and I had been concerned lest the unseasonably damp weather of the past week add to my friend's problems with a cold or flu. Fortunately there was no sign of that, thus far at least.

“I thought that you disapproved of the Salisbury government”, Sherlock said mildly, sipping his coffee. His brother scowled at him.

“I disapprove of all politicians”, he said loftily. “But as a servant of the Crown, it is my sovereign duty to uphold governments of all hues, Liberal or Conservative. And this damn new law is making it bloody difficult!”

Sherlock looked curiously at his unwelcome visitor. Like me, he too could see that something was amiss.

“I hardly think that you have come here today to consult me on constitutional matters, Bacchus”, he observed. “There is more to it than that.”

His brother seemed to hesitate, and a cold feeling ran down my spine. 

“The case has caused a falling-out between one of the government ministers and his good lady wife”, he said at last. “Their marriage was falling apart anyway, but this has been the final straw. And that in turn has split the cabinet; three of the other wives are supporting - and worse, publicly supporting - the lady. If she sues for divorce, and he contests it as I expect him to do, the case would be political dynamite!”

The divorce laws, as with so much else, were different back then. It was barely three decades since the Matrimonial Causes Act had enabled one or the other partner to petition a court for divorce, but this was only granted if it could be proved that one party had behaved abominably. Men had to prove adultery by their wives and that they themselves had not condoned such a thing, whilst woman faced an even higher bar, having to in addition prove some type of abuse. The only place this could be achieved was the High Court in London and, worst of all, proceedings were held in public. Scandal and social disgrace awaited any who braved this mælstrom. The sexes were put on an even footing by a more recent act (1923) and as I write this story (1936) plans are afoot for a further amelioration, although to what extent remains to be seen).

Sherlock stared at his brother warily, and my fears only increased. Just why would the fellow be calling Sherlock in on what seemed like a divorce case, albeit a high-profile one?

“I still do not see where I fit in”, my friend said cautiously.

“I asked the lady to wait outside, hoping that you might speak with her”, his brother said.

My bad feeling managed to ramp itself up by several notches. The elder Holmes was not just nervous, he was clearly terrified of something. Clearly he feared Sherlock's reaction for some reason - but why?

“Then kindly show her in”, Sherlock said curtly, rising to his feet. 

I rose too. Bacchus went and pressed the bell, and what seemed like an age later Mrs. Harvelle opened the door and announced “Lady Amelia Dundas.”

I will never forget what happened next. Sherlock took one astonished look at the visitor, then walked across and slapped his brother hard on the face. The taller Holmes did not even try to defend himself as the sound resounded around the room.

“You bastard!” Sherlock yelled at him, before turning and marching swiftly to his room. We heard the unmistakable sound of the lock being turned, and I stared between our two guests in complete confusion. 

“Indeed”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said, rubbing his reddened face. “That went about as well as I expected!”

+~+~+

“Sherlock?” I called tentatively.

It was about fifteen minutes later, and I was standing at the door to his room. His brother had taken Lady Dundas to a nearby restaurant, and Mrs. Harvelle – the soul of discretion, bless her – had retreated to her own rooms. We were alone.

“They have gone”, I called. “It is just me here now.”

There was the sound of the door being unlocked, and I will never forget the next few moments. Sherlock duly emerged, and it was patently obvious that he had been crying. My dearest friend, the man I admired more than any other on the planet, had been crying. I didn’t hesitate but held out my arms, and he fell into them, the sobbing breaking out anew.

+~+~+

“I suppose that you would like an explanation.”

I had never thought that I would use the comparison, but my friend looked as broken as poor Jimmy Collins had looked in that hovel outside Gotham a short time back. It struck me forcibly that Sherlock needed me to support him now, through whatever trials and tribulations the arrival of that lady had engendered. I reached across the table and gently placed a hand on his.

“Whenever you are ready, and whatever you have to tell me, I will listen”, I said, with a calmness I was certainly not feeling. “I will not judge you, my friend. You mean too much to be for me even to think of doing that.”

He shook, and stared down at where our hands were resting. I gently rubbed the ring on his finger, and he sniffed mournfully.

“It is an unedifying tale”, he warned me. “I am afraid that you will think so much less of me as a man when you know all. And I... I value your opinion above all else.”

“Everyone has skeletons in their cupboards”, I said firmly. “And the measure of a friend is one who stands by you no matter what. I will always be your friend, Sherlock.”

I thought for one horrible moment that I was about to set him off again, but he drew a ragged breath and shuddered again.

“The lady you saw earlier – she and I were lovers.”

I froze in shock, before I saw the hurt in those deep blue eyes of his. He needed me now, more than ever. I forced out a reassuring smile, and gripped his hand firmly. I would see him through this.

“Tell me”, I said. “Tell me everything.”

+~+~+

“It happened in the summer break the year before I met you in Oxford”, he began, and I could see how nervous he was. “I was nineteen years of age, an awkward teenager all elbows and poor clothing choices – I know, no change there! That was when I met and fell in love with a beautiful red-headed girl whose family had just moved into our area. Ours was a whirlwind romance, and I felt I had no other aim or purpose in life than to be man and wife with the beautiful Miss Amelia Everett.”

I stared at him, torn between shock and pity. His eyes were bright with what I suspected were tears for what might have been. He might have had the Victorian Dream with that lady; a wife, a home, children. Yet for some reason, it had not happened. 

He swallowed hard before continuing.

“Her father was a fierce xenophobe”, he said, “and when he found out that the son of an Irishwoman was seeing his daughter, he demanded that it stop. I was forbidden from ever seeing her again, and when I returned for Christmas break a few months later, she had gone. And by then, it was too late.”

I was puzzled.

“Too late for what?” I asked. He looked at me curiously.

“I had met you”, he said softly. “Even during those short weeks, and in that long lonely year before I met you again at Cambridge, I knew. I was yours, and I wanted no other.”

Passing aliens could probably have spotted my blush. 

“I did try to get Bacchus to find her for me”, he sighed, “but only because I was worried about her. He 'claimed' that he could not. I realized later that he was lying to protect her, and now he brings her here?”

“Protect her?” I said scornfully. “From what? You are far too much of a gentleman to ever behave the way that some of our so-called ‘high society’ handle themselves in this day and age!”

He smiled at my vehemence.

“You think too highly of me, my friend”, he said tiredly.

“I know you”, I said defensively, “and besides, the doctor is always right!”

He chuckled at that.

“You probably know more about the woman that could have become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes than I do”, he said with a sigh. “From all those society pages you never read.”

I pouted in mock offence, and he chuckled again. It was so good to hear that sound.

“She is married to Lord Edgar Dundas, the government minister who sits in the Lords”, I said. “They……”

Oh Lord above! Please, an apocalypse, an ærolite, the roof falling on me.... why did this have to be yet another time that my mouth was away out of the station before my brain had bought a ticket?

“John”, he said slowly, “ _what do you know?_ ”

I hesitated, but I had talked myself into this mess, and there was no way out other than to cause him even more pain. I braced myself.

“He married the current Lady Dundas some years ago”, I said slowly, wishing that science had progressed enough for me to be miraculously transported anywhere else in the globe just now. Or about forty seconds back in time; I was not fussy. “At the time the society pages remarked that they had had a brief relationship in their teenage years….”

I stopped, so not wanting to continue. His face had gone dark. He could guess what was coming.

“Go on”, he said heavily. 

“Her father opposed the match back then, and his family moved to South Africa for the next few years”, I said nervously. “The Dundases had relations out there; I think they owned a diamond mine. His son came back a few months later for a short visit; the newspapers recorded that he had had a son, George. His wife in South Africa died giving birth to their second son, Philip. Only…..

I stared at him pleadingly. Damnation, could not the great detective spare me this agony? Surely he knew?

“The society pages – you know what they are like – they noticed that Miss Amelia Everett had disappeared for a year just when her former paramour had left the country”, I said. “There was the subtlest hint – no evidence, of course – that young George might have been the second Lady Dundas' from their brief time together before he left, and that the new Lord Dundas may have returned to England solely to, um, 'collect' him.”

This was hellish. How could I ask him the obvious question, which was ‘did you….?’ But by the way in which his face suddenly went white, I had my answer. Possibly, just possibly, Sherlock had had a son. And I was about to make things even worse. Me and my big mouth.

“George.... Dundas died”, I managed. “Scarlet fever, when he was five.”

Sherlock said nothing, and we sat there for some considerable time, my hand holding his. 

+~+~+

“I have to see her.”

It was the following day, and mercifully (if only for his own safety) Mr. Bacchus Holmes had not seen fit to show his face around Baker Street. Sherlock was huddled beneath a weight of blankets in his favourite fireside chair, looking much older than his thirty-three years. I silently wept for him, but I knew that I had to remain strong. 

“Would you like me to ask for her to come here?” I offered. I did not know whether to continue and suggest I could either leave or stay as he wished, but he looked pleadingly at me before answering, and somehow I knew.

“Yes”, he said quietly. 

I reached for a notepad to send a telegram. It was a little warmer today, but Sherlock looked frozen in his own personal winter.

+~+~+

This case was going to break one or both of us, I thought to myself as we waited for the arrival of Lady Dundas, Sherlock’s.... lover of years ago. Possibly even the mother of his son. The woman who, despite all this, had requested his help in sorting out a possible divorce. I had offered again to leave them alone, but the heartbreaking look he had given me made it clear that he wanted me there.

This was awful!

Lady Dundas arrived on time and Mrs. Harvelle herself showed her up, clearly brimming with curiosity but too well-bred to show it (I owed her for the fact she had coffee and cakes ready, rather than bringing them up during the unwelcome visit). 

The lady gracefully took a seat; she seemed as nervous as us both.

“Hullo, Sherlock”, she said nervously. I immediately bristled at her use of his Christian name. 

“Good afternoon, Lady Dundas”, Sherlock said, only a slight tremor in his voice betraying his emotion. “I understand that you are requesting my help in securing a divorce from your husband?”

She looked across at him, clearly understanding the unspoken message from the coldness in his voice.

“I am still Amelia Everett, under all this finery”, she said quietly.

“But I am no longer a teenage boy”, Sherlock said bitterly, “who was passed over for an English peer’s son.”

She hung her head. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.

“I suppose that I deserved that”, she said. “But before we start, there is something that you should know.”

I held my breath. This was surely about her son.

It was.

“The Dundases lied about George's date of birth”, she said. “It was actually August of 'Seventy-Five. I can show you his birth certificate.”

I did a quick calculation and sighed inwardly in relief. I had met Sherlock at Oxford at the start of the previous September, which meant that barring an elephantine pregnancy, the child could not have been his. Clearly, judging from the slight tremor in his shoulders, he had worked it out too.”

“I see”, he said quietly. “Thank you for telling me that. Pray continue as to how you think that Doctor Watson and I may be of service.”

I noted that, unusually, he put my name first. Our visitor nodded. The tension in the air seemed to ease a little.

“I first met Edgar – Lord Dundas – in August, not long after I met you”, she said. “My father was opposed to our relationship - he had a fierce hatred of anyone not English.”

“I well remember!" Sherlock said bitterly. She blushed.

“Edgar is part South African and part Scottish, so my father hated him as much as he hated you”, she said. “However, I was a teenager, and certain that I knew best. Two months after you left for Oxford, we.....”

She trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“I assure you, Lady Dundas, that unusual although it is, there are some details that I do _not_ wish to know”, Sherlock said coldly. “You had the child, so your actions subsequent to my departure from the scene are blindingly obvious. Why did you and... this man not marry as soon as possible?”

“I discovered my pregnancy just after Christmas”, she said, “and of course my father was furious. He telegraphed Edgar, which was when I discovered that he had married a South African girl. I was forced to give the boy up to him, or at least to his family in England, and my father made it clear that I was never to see or make contact with either him or poor George. I heard nothing until he died of scarlet fever, just after his fifth birthday. I would not have known had not a servant of the family, who knew of the story, covertly informed me of his death.”

“I am sorry for your loss”, Sherlock said flatly. “Kindly explain how you did come to marry your husband.”

“My father died in 'Eighty-One, not long after George”, she said. “That was when I found out about my son's death; the servant I told you about saw my name and address in the paper, and came to tell me. Edgar's wife had died in childbirth delivering his other son Philip, and he had just returned to England with him. He had at that time taken up his seat in the House of Lords, though he had not attained his current high position in the government. In light of what happened the following year, I did agree to marry him.”

I was puzzled, but of course Sherlock knew.

“The Married Women’s Property Act”, he said. “It enabled you to keep control of your own finances.”

“Indeed”, she said. “That is the issue at hand. As I am sure you are aware, there has been friction between Edgar and myself over his totally unjustifiable opposition to the Children's Charter. But there is more. Earlier this year, there was a minor stock market panic, and I decided to spend some time reviewing my investments. I found to my horror that my husband had been secretly moving them from my name to his, and that I was virtually destitute!”

“That is illegal”, I said. “You can sue him for that.”

“I doubt that I could even afford a lawyer”, she said bitterly. “He has been very cunning, and would doubtless claim that I agreed to it at the time. I am sure that some of the papers he asked me to sign were instrumental in his deception. As I am sure you are aware, it is far easier for the husband in a marriage to obtain a divorce than the wife, and Edgar has dropped some hints - nothing written down, of course - that if I were to 'go quietly', he may deign to restore some of my stolen funds. But I would have to trust to his word on that.”

“Which, in the circumstances, may be something not worth the breath taken to utter it”, Sherlock said. “Your only hope would seem to be that your husband may deal fairly with you to avoid being on the front pages for weeks on end, and for being the subject of a major scandal. I would have thought that the offices of my brother would have been more efficient in pursuing your aims?”

She blushed again.

“I asked for your help”, she said, sounding nervous. “I know that I treated you very badly, Sherlock, but for those brief few summer months we were... happy. For the sake of what might have been, please help me!”

Of course he was going to help her, I thought, a shade bitterly. She had treated him exceptionally badly, not even trying to maintain contact with him, but he was far too soft a touch to refuse a genuine plea for help. Even though he deserved better than her. Well, he now had it.

“I will help you”, he said eventually.

“Thank you, Sherlock”, she smiled.

“But”, he said, his voice suddenly harsh, “all future communication will be via letter and telegram, until the case is fully resolved. I cannot forgive you for what you did, Amelia. You were my first true love, and you broke my heart.”

His voice broke as he finished, and he rose slowly to his feet, then walked to his bedroom and quietly shut the door. She stared unhappily after him, then sighed and bade me farewell.

+~+~+

I wondered if my friend would wish to sleep alone that night, but when I put my head around his door to inquire, he looked at me so forlornly that I nearly cried. I quickly got into my night-clothes and wrapped myself around him, but we slept little, and I had the terrible experience of holding someone who was quietly sobbing for most of the night.

We were both in poor shape the following day, although the look of undying love that I received when I forked over all my bacon (I was sure that Mrs. Harvelle had doubled our normal rations that day, bless the lady) was a rare, happier moment. My friend was clearly determined not to discuss the emotional events of the previous day, and I heartily concurred with that decision. I felt as if I had had my full quota of those for the next decade!

“I need to dispatch a lot of telegrams and letters today”, he said as we sat at the breakfast table (I had long finished, but I brought my coffee back to the table to sit with him). “I have several possible lines of inquiry, and there may be more once I have read the file that Bacchus is assembling on Lord Dundas.”

“Are you going to interview him?” I asked.

“No.”

That did surprise me. I wondered instinctively if Sherlock was allowing his feelings for an old flame to edge him into taking sides. He obviously read my thoughts in my face, and sighed.

“You consider that my judgement is suspect because of my past relationship with….. Lady Dundas”, he said.

“I would wager my life on your judgement”, I said hotly. “I just do not see what he gains by refusing to provide his wife with a divorce. She may be ruined financially by the case, but he will be the talk of the newspapers for weeks on end. Hardly wise for someone seeking promotion, as he evidently is.”

“He gains her money, at least in the short term until things are sorted out”, Sherlock said. “And thank you.”

“What for?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because everyone should have a friend who is prepared to speak truth to them”, he said. “Whilst I am waiting for the dossier on Lord Dundas, I will institute some inquiries into his wife.”

Unfortunately, my good intentions were to once again backfire spectacularly.

+~+~+

Proving that troubles rarely arrive singly, I had to leave Sherlock for a time at this most inopportune moment. My brother Sammy had planned to marry his fiancée Miss Jessica Moore that May, and her uncle Horace, who was a reverend, was supposed to have conducted the service, only for him and two members of her family to all come down with the same gastroenteritis that had affected Sherlock earlier that year. The result was that the wedding had been postponed until they had fully recovered, which was now, September. I did not want to go, leaving my friend at this terrible time, but I had no choice.

I was more than a little shocked when I arrived to find that the bride-to-be was pregnant and that I would soon become an uncle, but even that did little to avert my mind from my worries over my friend, and I took the earliest train back on the final Sunday that I could, pleading a need to catch up with my writings. I had a horrible feeling that they knew all too well the real reasons behind my distractedness, but fortunately they refrained from remarking on it. Bearing in mind the many times that I had teased my 'little' brother whilst growing up, I owed him for that.

Arriving back at Baker Street did not alleviate my worries at all, as Mrs. Harvelle immediately drew me aside and informed me that Sherlock had barely touched his meals during my absence. Fortunately, by this time in my life I was only working at the surgery from Mondays to Wednesdays, giving me four consecutive days for writing. I quickly hatched a plan, and agreed it with our landlady before going upstairs. And when I saw how tired Sherlock looked, I felt even more guilty at having abandoned him at a time like this.

It had been mid-afternoon when I returned, and a few hours later Mrs. Harvelle sent up our dinner. Sherlock did not even look up from his writing-desk when the maid entered, but once the food had been set out and she had gone, I went and stood by him.

“Come”, I said. “Dinner is ready.”

“I am not hungry”, he muttered, not even looking up.

Fortunately he had recently acquired one of those new swivel chairs, so I was able to spin him round to face me, much to his evident surprise. I placed a hand on each arm-rest and, this time, it was I invading his personal space.

“This is your doctor speaking”, I said firmly. “And your friend. You need to take better care of yourself, Sherlock Castiel Holmes. And that is going to start with you eating a full meal, every evening. You and I are going to dine at the same time seven days a week, come hell or high water!”

He stared at me in confusion, before nodding and getting to his feet. I knew that I had no real way of enforcing my proscription; although I was taller and more muscular than my friend, I knew that he was learnéd in the knowledge of several unarmed fighting skills in his time, and that in a straight fight I would be lucky to come second. He walked to the table and sat down, then lifted one of the covered dishes.

“Bacon for tea?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I asked Mrs. Harvelle to prepare something that I thought you would like”, I said. I refrained from adding that I personally hated the way he liked his bacon, so crispy that you could build a toy house out of it. He looked at me curiously, then smiled slightly.

I would do anything for one of those smiles, I thought, as I forked over most of my bacon onto his plate.

+~+~+

There was a tense atmosphere in the house all the following week, as I watched my friend carefully for further signs of tiredness or ill-health, and he seemed a little uneasy at being watched. I noted quickly that he was not taking on any new cases (except for a small matter concerning a fellow landlady friend of Mrs. Harvelle further along Baker Street, which he quickly solved), although he did finish his remaining current cases. His brother's file on Lord Dundas had arrived, and he had spent many hours poring over it, although if he had found anything of interest he did not tell me. I would have felt excluded from the case, except for the other change that had happened after my return.

During my 'long weekends' of writing, I had fallen into the habit of taking a daily walk, because much as I loved our rooms in Baker Street, a change of air seemed to help me think more clearly. Sherlock was also often out and about on one matter or another and he also liked to read in his bedroom, so we did not usually see much of each other on these days, apart from our evening meal routine. However, after my return from seeing Sammy, things seemed to change for some reason. Sherlock asked if he could accompany me on my daily walk, and seemed to almost expect me to decline, which I would never have done. He was apologetic about using these excursions to do his own tasks of sending and receiving letters and telegrams, but I told him I did not mind where we went together. He also made far fewer trips out on his own, preferring to dispatch boys to the post and telegraph offices if he needed to send or reply to communications, and rarely went into his own room to read, preferring his fireside chair. I could not fathom any reason for all this; possibly the reappearance of his first love had unsettled him somewhat.

+~+~+

“I am expecting Lady Dundas today.”

I was surprised at that sudden announcement. I had thought that he had not wanted to see the dratted woman ever again. He smiled slightly; obviously the annoying mind-reading thing was still working, worse luck.

“Certain discoveries mean that it is advisable for me to speak to her in person”, he sighed. “And yes, I too wish that it could be avoided.”

“But you always do the right thing”, I smiled. “Ever dependable, my Sherlock.”

He smiled across at me.

“I do not deserve you, John”, he sighed. “I drag you everywhere and expose you to untold dangers, I abandoned you for three years, I... I....”

He stuttered to a halt.

“You are my friend”, I said simply. “And I would not give that up for all the tea in China!”

+~+~+

Shortly after, Lady Dundas was announced. She took a seat by the fire and, unusually, Sherlock remained standing. I did not glare evilly at her, but it was close.

“I do not wish to detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, Lady Dundas”, Sherlock said coolly, “but I have one or two important things to tell you.”

“Is it good news?” she asked, sounding fearful.

“My research has revealed that it will _not_ be possible for you to legally obtain a divorce from your husband”, he said flatly.

Her face fell.

“You think that I will lose in court”, she said dully.

“No”, he said. “The reason is quite simple. You are not legally married.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“I do not understand.”

“This case has been all about lies”, he said, sounding unusually bitter. “One in particular concerns the first Lady Dundas who, Watson told me, died giving birth to your husband's current heir, Philip.”

“She did”, Lady Dundas said.

“She did not”, Sherlock said firmly. “Following your father's death, Lord Dundas wished to marry you, as he deemed you far more suitable to be the wife of a peer of the realm, as well as his first love. He paid off his first wife and spread the story about her dying in childbirth; the girl was apparently a little simple-minded, because her family accepted the payment on her behalf. She died three years ago, but that means that she was still alive at the time that you 'married' Lord Dundas, so your union with him is bigamous, and therefore unlawful. I am sure that your husband would prefer to grant you an uncontested divorce and restore all your stolen funds, once he knows that there is proof of his shameful behaviour.”

She beamed.

“That is wonderful news!” she smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

I felt a sudden sense of foreboding. His face had acquired that shuttered look again, the one he put on when he was masking some strong emotion.

“I also had cause to speak with one Mr. Silas Rosenstern.”

One of the document forgers that we had encountered, I remembered. Evidently the name struck a chord with our guest, who drew back from Sherlock as if burnt. His blue eyes were cold as ice.

“I know all”, he said sharply. “I know how you and your father use one of the best forgers of official documents in London to obtain not one but two forged documents concerning the birth of your first son, and that you had to show Mr. Rosenstern the real birth certificate before he would start work on the forgeries that you paid so dearly for. It is your exceptional ill luck that I not only use the man's services myself from time to time, but that I performed a small service for him quite some years back. When I asked him if he had had any dealings with you, he felt compelled to tell me all.”

She put her head in her hands and wept, but Sherlock remained unmoved.

“George Dundas was born in December of 'Seventy-Four”, he said bitterly. “Not the following August, as you stated, which means that he was conceived several months before you first met Lord Dundas, whilst you were.... seeing me. George was my son, and you kept him from me.”

She continued to weep, and he did not move to comfort her. When he spoke again, his voice was if anything even colder.

“This case is concluded”, he said. “I will forward you a bill for services rendered. We shall not meet again. Good day, Lady Dundas.”

He walked quietly away to his room and closed the door behind him. Our visitor stood, looked once at me, then walked slowly to the door and left. I stared after her, then at the door on the other side of the room. Feeling in my pocket for what I knew was there, I walked across and knocked before entering.

“Some birthday!” he said bitterly. “A son I never knew, and never will know.”

“At least you know the truth”, I said consolingly. “I did get you a small present, Sherlock. I don't suppose there will be a good time, so you had better have it now.”

I handed him the small box, which thankfully I had had the foresight to get wrapped at the store (my own efforts always made it look as if it had repeatedly fallen out of a mail-bag!). He smiled at me, and unwrapped it, lifting the lid off the box. 

“A blue tie”, he smiled. “Thank you. I shall wear it soon.”

I smiled sheepishly.

“Look closer”, I urged.

He looked at me in surprise, then took the tie over to the large standing-lamp in the corner of the room. Looking closely at the blue weave, he could now make out the message in it.

“'My true friend'”, he said, his voice clearly taut with emotion. “John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Hold me!”

I did not hesitate but opened my arms, into which he fell weeping, sobbing out his thanks as we stood there in the gathering gloom. Two men who were good friends. 

Not for the first time, I wondered at that thought.

+~+~+

The emotional strain on my beleaguered friend continues in our next case, where Sherlock is asked by a jailed man's wife to clear his name, and her reaction when he does just that is rather unexpected.


End file.
